


domus vampiri

by Serpents_Cradle



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Vampire, And Therefore Bosie Free, Blood, Blood Drinking, But all of it is consensually spilt blood!, Byron is only around long enough to satisfy the canon compliance, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Explicit Consent, F/M, Loosely based off of Oscar Wilde's 1877 Rome Visit, M/M, Mary Shelley is the Bad-Ass Bitch we Don't Deserve, Might consider adding a second chapter if feedback is good, Multi, No Smut, Sexual Tension, Vampire Bites, Which I think makes any Wilde RPF go from Good to Great, a lot of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24419839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpents_Cradle/pseuds/Serpents_Cradle
Summary: A brief flicker of recognition passes over Oscar’s face, and he blinks, mouth opening slightly before he speaks. “The resemblance truly is striking,” he says, frowning slightly. “You’re related to him, then?”“Something similar,” John replies.
Relationships: John Keats/Percy Shelley, Lord Byron/Mary Shelley/Percy Shelley/John Keats (Background), Mary Shelley/Percy Shelley, Oscar Wilde/John Keats, Oscar Wilde/Mary Shelley/Percy Shelley/John Keats
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	domus vampiri

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shelleysfork (waltswhits)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltswhits/gifts).



> "ok so. junkets? not dead. neither are the shelleys or byron. they live in italy and they are vampires, and they pick people up who are visiting their graves." (5/11/20)
> 
> -
> 
> general tw for blood, but none of it is atypical for a vamp fic! everything is explicitly consensual.
> 
> not beta'd or even really proofread.

The sun is just beginning to set beneath the silhouettes of the Roman spires, casting long shadows out over the streets and providing a slight respite from the overbearing heat of the early summer day. It paints a jagged chiaroscuro over the old cobble and newer brick, roads that have seen far too many days—more than any human would have, anyways. The gates of the cemetery mark a sudden change from grey and brown, to soft grasses inset with the bright purple of the last struggling violet blossoms; here, somehow, the city itself loses its dominion, and the sun shines gold and warm on the greener paths. 

The man there wanders through them, cautious more than others of the blossoms beneath his heels: it is late enough the crowds of the day have thinned considerably, but there’s still mothers and widows and children milling about, trying to eke out the last hours of daylight and express their grief. This man is not a child, though his mourning is still written in his features, a soft sort of pall draped over the living rather than the dead. He’s made this pilgrimage before, many a time, and the turns are easy and simple. A left, then a slight right, and there’s a grassy corner with a headstone no more regal or exquisite than the others.

_ The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, _

_ Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.' _

He finds the grave easily, pensive as he leans on the ebony cane he’s brought with him. The sky, too, seems to be mourning—a fresh sheath of clouds steals the light away from the sun, and the man hums in a strange breed of approval. No one comes to this corner, really—not so late, not this grave. It doesn’t draw the pilgrims like the Catholic Cemetery’s graves, doesn’t stand out like the pyramids not far from it—it is no more than a marking above a plot of grass. The man hesitates, unsure, before reaching to pull the sunflower from his buttonhole and lay it at the foot of the stone. He doesn’t notice dark eyes trained on him, watching him carefully, nor does he notice the soft sound of grass beneath feet—he does, however, notice the cut of a voice, soft and kind.

“ _ Era un santo _ ,” it calls, warm Italian and honey-sweet, and the man turns his head, catching only the side of the man’s profile. His head is tilted slightly, but his eyes bore down at the grave as if he expects it to crumble if he blinks. When the man doesn’t answer, he continues, his voice marked by an accent that the man can’t immediately place, as if it’s a falsified accent superimposed on another—not quite Italian, but not exactly  _ foreign _ , either. “ _ Sei un amante? O sono— _ ” he pauses, squinting, and switches languages instinctively, “Are you a lover of his poems, or just visiting?”

“His poems,” the man replies, turning his head back towards the headstone. He supposes he doesn’t look perfectly Italian, with pale skin and a full velvet suit, but he doesn’t think he comes off as  _ that  _ foreign. There’s a soft blush of moss on the lower-left corner, obscuring part of the “F” in “Feb. 24.”

“Us, and many others,” the strange figure muses, an indeterminable sort of sanctity in his voice, as if he’s actually speaking of a saint. Maybe he is, in a more abstract way. “‘I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.’ It’s a wonder how such a soul could be… Lost, before its time.”

The pilgrim turns his head fully, now, catching the man’s eye and examining his features. He’s young, younger than him for sure, but his eyes are  _ off  _ in a way he can’t place. There’s something not quite  _ real _ about them, burdened by age although the face they are set in is young as a child’s. He’s also remarkably short—The elder must have a foot or more on his height. “Before its time,” he agrees, scanning the man’s—boy’s, really—face for some sort of shift there. He finds none, and so he turns back to the tombstone in front of him. “Young English poet.”

“So young,” the visitor hums, cocking his head and squinting at the grave like there’s some sort of undisclosed secret written between the letters, “especially when you imagine the flower his work could have blossomed into if he had survived his malady.” A humoural bitterness creeps into his tone, and he shakes his head in a sudden display of anger. “Foolish doctors. They thought the illness was in his stomach, you know. He could have lived.”

The taller man watches the other with a quiet sort of agreement, keeping his face set in a picturesque veil. “It’s a shame,” he agrees again, thumbing at the buttonhole where the sunflower had been moments earlier. “I can’t even imagine it. He may have lived a very proper life, in the end.. If he was alive, even today, he could have out-written Shakespeare.”

The younger man breathes out through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Perhaps so,” he says, voice laced with a sort of mocking disapproval that makes the pilgrim’s brows knit in confusion until the man turns those huge, searching eyes upon him once more. “I miss him dreadfully, you know. I do hope you don’t intend to validate those urban legends about the grave of Keats driving men to suicide.”

“I would never dream of such a thing,” the man replies easily, a bit incredulous. He’d never even considered that such an activity would be commonplace, and the other squeezes his elbow softly, an infinitesimally small show of support. His hand is cold.

“More people do than would ever admit it. Keats wouldn’t have wanted to be made into some sort of ephemeral martyr.”

“I know.”

The man still hasn’t lowered his gaze. It’s a bit comical, as he has to tilt his head back more than sixty degrees to even meet the pilgrim’s face. “Sir, what might I call you?” He asks, a charismatic charm wrapping around his words even though they’re said plain as anything— _ what time is it, how are you, how much for this loaf of bread _ . “We have been musing for too long. I would like to buy you a drink.”

“Oscar,” he says, turning away, overwhelmed by the shy look in those dark eyes. “You needn’t know my family name. We are brothers in mourning.”

The man huffs out a small laugh, then turns to cough gently, wincing in pain. Oscar wonders if there are more similarities between the tiny man and the poet than he lets on. The low light of the sun makes his eyes dance—why are they so entrapping? “Well, then. My name is John, Oscar. Pleased to meet you.”

Oscar looks back towards the gravestone and back, quizzical. “Are you named after him?” He asks, the underlying question ringing through clear— _ Is that your real name? _

“Something similar,” John replies, staring and cocking his head demurely. He seems to have a habit of it, betraying that tiny bit of curiosity in his eyes. “But it is an honour to share his name.”

A brief flicker of recognition passes over Oscar’s face, and he blinks, mouth opening slightly before he speaks. “The resemblance truly is striking,” he says, frowning slightly. “You’re related to him, then?”

“Something similar,” John repeats, rubbing his wrists gently as if keeping off a hidden chill, “but I visit his grave every day.”

“What could possibly be similar to being related to someone? By marriage, or some such?”

John doesn’t really reply, but he hums out on a low note before finally turning his face away. “Think of me as but an echo of his brilliant life.”

Silence passes between them for a beat or two, pregnant and heavy. Time flows like molasses over barrel staves until John moves closer, dropping a single red carnation at the foot of the tombstone, next to Oscar’s sunflower. “Do you believe in ghosts, dear Oscar?”

Oscar shrugs vaguely, pursing his lips in thought. He catches John’s face with the corner of his eye, resolved not to move from looking at the writing in front of him.  _ Here lies one whose name was writ in water _ . “It depends. I deny nothing.”

“Depends,” John says, stretching the ‘s’ out for several beats, caught between teeth and tongue in an inciting hiss, “and If I could prove to you, dear Oscar, that I was the ghost of John Keats, walking among men, would you believe me?”

“Again,” Oscar replies, suddenly wary. He shifts in place, still staring at the stone in front of him, but his grip on his cane tightens. “It depends.”

John doesn’t move, though, just smiles slow and soft. It youthens his face even further. “Good talk,” he says, low and purring once more. He turns to go, gathering up the smooth leather satchel he had brought with him, slinging it over his shoulder. “It’s fun to pretend, sometimes—being blessed with his features, and all.”

“Ah,” Oscar replies vaguely, a strange sense of discomfort creeping in at the edges, but as soon as he meets John’s eye again, it subsides. There’s a look in them that demands confidence, something unwritten in his gaze that quells his unease.

The youth in his face turns brittle and demure for a moment, his eyes flashing with something far removed from grace or softness. It’s playful in a slightly sickening way, but it piques Oscar’s interest anyway. “You would be right to be sceptical of ghosts, you know. I wouldn’t say as much about being sceptical of vampires.”

It’s whispered on a low breath and gone just as fast, but it fills Oscar with a strange, latent sort of curiosity that freezes him in place. “I don’t quite grasp your euphemism?”

“No euphemism,” John replies, bright and clear, smiling in a way much different from the youthful grins mere moments ago. It’s sharkish, hungry,  _ demanding _ . “There is an old legend that supposes Lord George Byron was a vampire—from those who read Polidori’s work far too literally, you know—and that the summer of 1816 was simply a front for him to convince the Shelleys to join his coven… Why not Keats, as well?”

Oscar’s frown deepens as John speaks, but he hums thoughtfully anyways. “Why not,” he ventures, willing to humour the other man for a moment. John just smiles, though, and doesn’t take the prompt as bait.

“Would you like to get a drink?” He asks again, still completely calm. Oscar considers the proposal again, taking in the man’s mien with a careful eye. “Why not,” he repeats, a spark in his own eye, now.

“Why not.”

**

They exit the cemetery not long later, and though it felt like the exchange had only lasted minutes, the sun has already fully set. The street lamplighters wander back and forth, fire-horned beetles that slowly move from area to area, bestowing a small mockery of the sun’s great glow. John walks on Oscar’s left, using him as a shield against the flow of traffic. It’s not surprising—Oscar’s willing to bet he gets trapped in crowds more often than someone of his size. It’s actually rather cute, but he doesn’t comment; better to let John lead in this strange  _ pas de deux _ . 

“You’re not from around here, either,” Oscar comments, vague, not making any bold claims about John’s origin in case he offends. John looks up at him, one hand still firmly on the strap of his bag, and Oscar laughs lightly. “Based on your particular affliction for a certain poet, I’m willing to guess you’re English, but I could be wrong.”

John just smiles in reply, carefully choosing his words. “I have lived in Italy for each one of the past twenty-four years,” he replies, sidestepping a gap where a piece of the cobble was missing. “I am more Italian than I am English, now.” 

He casts a curious glance down the street, eyes sparkling. “My favourite place isn’t far from here. You can get a bite and a drink at the same time… The flavour there is immaculate,” he continues, suddenly sidestepping again, but this time continuing towards the darkness of an old alleyway that seems to terminate. A dead-end, Oscar notes, and his pulse quickens. He doesn't doubt that he could hold his own in a fight—especially with the height and weight advantage—but it doesn’t mean he’s jumping to start a tussle in a foreign country. “You’ll love it, don’t fret.”

After glancing left and right—to ensure that no one is around, Oscar guesses—John slips into a tiny depression in the brick. There’s a door there that Oscar swears wasn’t there before, but he doesn’t dwell on it. The night cold sets in, and he pulls his thin jacket tighter around his form, watching as John knocks on the door, ultraquiet. 

The door opens slowly, and a young man appears in the frame with the same old, watchful eyes as John. It takes him a moment, but then something clicks, and Oscar takes a startled step back. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, exactly, but ‘axe murderer’ was certainly higher on the list than  _ actual English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley _ in the doorway. 

“Percy,” John says sweetly, which only confirms Oscar’s intuitive conclusion, ”I brought one for us, see? I told you I could.” His eyes are alight again, that same flare of intrinsic fire that Oscar has seen himself in the mirror many a time. “I won the bet—Percy, this is Oscar. Do behave.”

“My  _ Lord _ ,” Oscar swears, all wit gone from his system within the space of a breath. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so stupid in his life. “I—Percy  _ Shelley _ ?”

Shelley smiles, warm and catlike, and offers a bow that’s only half-mocking. “You’re sharp, dear Oscar,” he hums, offering his hand deliberately. Oscar takes it with a slightly shaky hand, and it’s cold in the same way that John’s hand on his elbow had been. “That, or I have become another very attractive poet overnight. I do hope it is Keats.”

“What—”

Keats huffs softly and gently pushes Oscar over the threshold between the night air and the warmth of their little hovel. “Come on, Oscar, keep up, really,” he complains. 

Oscar goes willingly enough, surprised to find that there’s hardly any room in the interior at all—it looks to be barely ten square yards of space, but Percy shoves against the wall lightly and reveals a staircase that leads down into another area. “After you, my friend,” he smiles, leaning against the opposite wall.

Oscar still hasn’t quite regained his handle of the English language, but he goes easily enough, unsure of why, exactly, he’s trusting someone who supposedly died in 1822. John follows him, and Percy waits at the top of the staircase. Oscar swallows hard when he hears the hidden doorway slam shut, but John’s cool hand finds his shoulder only to fall away when they’re on level ground again. He honestly is  _ tiny _ .

It’s dark, for a moment, and Oscar is still slightly nervous he’s about to be stabbed to death, but then John reaches over to turn the dial on the lamp system and bathes the room in a smooth, dim glow.

At the sight of it, Oscar’s breath catches in his throat—the sheer splendour of this underground hideaway turns what he had supposed a lowly hovel into an underground manor. The wallpaper is a rich burgundy that contrasts with the gilt ornamentation on the walls, spiralling up into smooth crown moulding that highlights the ceiling. Oscar steps out further, admiring the brightness of it: the chandelier above him, the soft rug below him, and around him slightly worn housewares that still manage to look quaint. When he looks closer, though, it’s clear that the room isn’t all glamour and opulence—the ceiling sags slightly, warping the chandelier’s light; the far wall is installed with a fireplace with firestones stained by soot. It’s exactly the kind of place he would have expected to find a duo of seemingly immortal Regency poets hiding out.

Although, upon further examination, it becomes clear that this buried mansion is inhabited by far more than two—most notably because of the form draped over the sofa backed against the wall to his left. Oscar’s throat grows tight once more—how many more secrets are hidden by these walls? He’s certain he could live an entire life and never uncover them all. 

“Welcome to Roman House,” John says warmly, stepping out of the way so that Shelley can cross into his hidden palace. “Now that you are here, and there are no ears but our own, I may introduce myself properly. My name is John Keats, and I did not die in 1821—nor Percy in '22, nor Lord Byron in '24, nor Mary in '51, for that matter. We live here, in our own way.”

Percy leans in and sets his nose against John’s shoulder, stilling him with the touch. “The problem, though, is that even with our preparations, we have  _ cravings _ . Ones which, if he brought you here, my Adonais seems to believe you can fulfil,” he explains, flashing Oscar a sultry smile that’s not quite human, dragging his teeth against John’s neck. John squeezes Percy’s arm tightly, glaring up at the taller man before turning his gaze back to Oscar.

Surprised, Oscar furrows his brows, looking between the two of them, their casual display of intimacy, their eyes darkened by the low light—perhaps something else. “Vampires,” he says, and the word speaks more breathlessly than he had intended, but there was no point to mask it, now. He was right where he was wanted, and the snare had already tightened. “And if I ask to leave?”

“Then we’ll let you,” an unfamiliar voice calls, and all three men turn to the alcove across from their point of entry. A woman stands there with curious eyes, holding a clay pitcher in careful hands. “Sweet Elf, you’re scaring the man, let him sit down and talk.”

Percy makes a face, but there’s no malice in it. “Mary,” he whines lightly, but he just sighs and moves towards a makeshift sitting area in the far corner. The other form currently occupying the second of the two sofas—clearly a man, and likely Lord Byron, based on earlier conversations—doesn’t stir. Percy catches Oscar’s eye and chuckles softly. “He’s high on laudanum, don’t worry about him. He was babbling about his poetic dreamscape before Junkets left.”

“I see,” Oscar says blandly, following the pair he’d already met properly. Percy settles on the arm of the sofa, and John sits next to him, leaning on his arm gently. Mary tucks her skirts and drags a stool over for herself, gesturing for Oscar to take the last available seat, next to John. He sits quickly, but not without grace, sweeping his gaze across the full scene. He clears his throat, the heat in the eyes fixed upon him finally getting to him. “So…?”

“Well, since Percy has forgotten his manners again, I suppose I ought to introduce myself,” Mary says pointedly, but her countenance remains bright. She seems younger in form than the rest of them, but of the three he’s met, her eyes are undeniably the wisest. “Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, but you likely knew that already. And you?”

This time, Oscar only gapes for a moment, the situation slowly becoming less dreamish and hazy in his mind. “Oscar Wilde,” he replies, kind and respectful, briefly distracted by Percy nestling a hand in John’s auburn curls and then visibly calming. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“As are we,” Percy chimes in, smiling absently and not bothering to look up. “I beg your pardon for my earlier… impatience. You are one of the first darlings whom my Adonais has brought back to us, and I cannot help but be proud.”

John hums softly, eyes closed and focused intently on Percy’s hand. “‘M not a fledgeling, Perce,” he says softly, but he seems much more serene than he was before.

“Why  _ did _ you bring me here?” Oscar asks, his anxiety ebbing even further. Their comfort makes him smile softly, and Mary catches his eye to spare one of her own. “I’m obviously not a vampire—nor am I a poet of any real merit. Why me?”

“You told me I could have out-written Shakespeare, and agreed that I was not some frail poet to be martyred,” John mumbles again, opening his eyes just enough he can make out Oscar’s form. “And you’re tall. I like that.”

Mary shakes her head fondly, her grey-blue eyes softening around the edges. “We brought you here to ask if you’d be willing to let us drink from you—just for a couple of days, at most. It won’t be painful… Far from it, really. But we must get your consent first. It helps prevent further issues.”

Oscar seems to consider this, furrowing his brow as he looks between them. “And if I change my mind?” He questions, thinking back to Percy’s sharp-toothed smile and dark eyes, the completely consuming look that John had fixed him with at the cemetery. It seems like a dream, really—too good to be true. He was well aware that making deals with creatures could end poorly for him.

Mary fiddles with the lace on her sleeve gently, picking at some invisible speck of dust, perhaps. “Then we’ll let you leave, whenever you want. We’ll have to wipe your memory of the events, if so, but you’ll understand… It’s not safe for us here, for obvious reasons.” She turns to Percy and John, and even to Lord Byron, fond and a bit nervous. “All we ask is your word that you won’t try to hurt us. We won’t attack unless we’re provoked or given explicit permission to do so.”

John tilts his head away from Percy’s hand and levels Oscar with that same consuming look, his eyes pits of black with a thin, hazelly ring around the edges. “Please, Oscar?” He asks, and Oscar can glean the exact genesis of the name  _ Adonais _ at that moment—soft curls and softer eyes which conceal a mind unlike any he’d known. He wants to give in, wants to touch those curls softly, wants—

“Love, stop volomancing him,” Percy teases, nuzzling in close once more and adding a second set of eyes to the owlish ones still fixed upon him. “You don’t need to, you know. He’ll say yes on his own.”

John’s eyes continue to dance, but he smiles softly. Oscar can physically feel the pressure in his mind release. “La Belle Dame sans Merci hath thee in thrall,” he whispers, and Shelley gently shoves at his arm, causing a kind laugh to bubble from John’s throat. “You’re insufferable, Percy, did you know that?”

Even though he’s allegedly been freed from the thrall of John’s eyes, Oscar is filled with an undeniable sort of attachment to the three of them. There’s love in that room that is completely unspoken, yet completely candid; the kind of love that consumes the soul in its entirety and doesn’t let go, and he _ wants _ . “If I promise not to hurt you, not to share your secrets or provoke you—you’ll let me stay?”

“Of course,” Mary says, at the same time that John whispers “please do.” She leans forward and settles a cool hand on Oscar’s knee. “We won’t kill you, I promise. You might feel weak for a few days, after all of this, but you won’t be in pain. You can stay as long as you like.”

“I’ll stay, then,” Oscar replies, firm and certain. He pretends it doesn’t make his pulse race when John smiles coyly at that, bringing Percy’s wrist to his mouth and teasing his mouth over it; he pretends he doesn’t notice the light hitch in Shelley’s breath or the subtle way that Mary shifts in her seat. “I trust you.”

Percy hums again, hissing and gently pulling John away from his wrist. A small red prick mars his smooth skin. “Not a fledgeling, sure,” he teases, but John just moves up to nuzzle Percy’s arm again. When he turns back to face Oscar once more, he smiles brightly, revealing fangs so small that they almost pass as human. At least, they would pass if they weren’t tipped in dark blood—darker than human blood by a fair share. He’s certain John has locked onto the quickened beat of his heart, but Percy steals him away again and kisses his neck fondly. “As you can see, John is practically beside himself with hunger.”

Oscar’s brain is shorting out just a touch, between Percy’s watchful eye and John’s fangs, but he hasn’t made it this far without some semblance of wit. “I’m not the one holding him back, Mr. Shelley,” he says calmly.

John huffs a gentle laugh. “I can hold myself back,” he snarks, turning to face Oscar head-on. “I’m doing it right now, I could suck you  _ dry _ , Oscar.”

Every time Oscar has looked into those ever-changing eyes, he’s felt like he’s at a loss, but he doesn’t now. Something about the effect his mere presence is having on John makes him feel like the power is in his hands, now. He simply smiles in response, looking between the others with an eye he usually reserves for composition. “I started writing a poem about you, you know,” he breathes, soft and gentle. “Partially, anyways. It’s about a vision I had—’ _ Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine _ .’”

“Oh?” John breathes, sitting up straight and cocking his head again, the perfect mirror of the pose he’d first endured while standing at his grave. He slides away from Shelley slowly, hovering with his mouth inches away from Oscar’s own. “And then what, my dear Oscar?”

Oscar watches John carefully—as does Percy, he notes, likely ready to pull him back if something were to happen—bringing one hand up to card through those same hymeneal curls. “ _ With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine, _ ” he replies, firm in the completion of the couplet. John’s eyes alight and he leans in close, pressing his lips gently to Oscar’s forehead, slow and deliberate. 

“Like that? Ambrosial enough for you?” He asks, pulling back to look at Oscar through his eyelashes, drinking him in for half a second before sliding fully into his lap. “Do you know why I like tall men, Oscar?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

John leans closer, smiling against his ear, letting him feel the sharpness there. Oscar swallows delicately. “It’s because when I sit in their laps, just like this,” he says, gesticulating vaguely at his slight form, “I’m in the perfect position to tuck my head right here, in their neck, or against their chest, and I can  _ hear _ exactly how much their pulse races when they’re pleased.” He demonstrates well enough, humming in delight when he leans forward and finds his head pillowed delicately in the warmth of Oscar’s chest. “You like me here, don’t you, darling?”

Oscar keeps his hand gentle at the nape of John’s neck, feeling the smaller man's distinct lack of pulse—his skin isn’t cold, or even unpleasantly chilly, it’s just slightly cool to the touch. He can’t deny John’s accusation without outright lying, but Percy catches his eye again and nods slow, approving. He seems to have relaxed a bit, unfolding his long legs and taking the place on the couch where John had been a moment ago. “I do like you here,” he admits softly, twining his fingers into short curls. He looks back to Percy, who seems to understand his dilemma; he does suppose he’s not the first man that they’ve all shared like this.

“You’ll like me better here,” John says, leaning back and grabbing Oscar’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, levelling him with the same wide, dangerous stare Oscar fears he’s going to become completely entrapped in. He’s more aware of the insistent pressure in the back of his mind, now, and goes easily, seizing John’s lips in a kiss soft as silk.

John makes a pleased little sound in the back of his throat, lips parting eagerly, quickly finding Oscar’s bottom lip with his fangs and just  _ holding _ it there, teasing. “Do you want me to bite you, dearest poet? Because once I do, I know I won’t be able to stop unless my sweet Shelley pulls me away—he’s here for you, you know. I am more fledgeling than I admit.”

“He is,” Mary offers, refusing to be forgotten, abandoning her stool in favour of curling a smooth, pale hand into Percy’s curls. Percy looks up at her like she’s the only thing in the world, soft and shy and yet so  _ electric _ beneath that page’s mien. Of the three of them, her fangs are easily the most lethal-looking—Oscar only vaguely considers the implications of that within their dynamic. “If he misbehaves, he knows the consequences. George may be asleep, but believe me, he won’t be for long.” 

Oscar, still pinned both in body and in spirit, opens his mouth gently, feeling the sharp tug of John’s lower fangs, held perfectly without splitting the skin. John, the retriever, he, the egg; only broken with permission. He nods slowly, careful not to make any abrupt movements. 

“Bite, sweet Adonais,” Percy says smoothly, and John doesn’t need to be told twice, sinking his upper fangs into the supple flesh of Oscar’s lower lip.

At first, Oscar only hisses softly; it’s not exactly comfortable, but the pain isn’t unbearable. It’s a little like a finger prick or a flu shot more than a proper bite, but when John makes a low,  _ hungry _ sound and wraps his lips tight around the wound and  _ sucks _ , he shudders softly, a strange and unexpected pleasure lighting his nerves up like fireworks.

Percy watches the two of them, leaning into Mary’s touch gently as he does so—his eyes are just as dark as John’s are, and he seems halfway between jealous and approving. “John, quit teasing,” he says firmly, and John looks over with red-stained lips, pulling back from Oscar. 

“Why? Aren’t you usually all about  _ patience _ ?” John replies easily, moving closer to Percy, kissing him once, chaste and simple. Whether or not Percy’s all about patience, Oscar doesn’t know, because as soon as John’s lips meet Percy’s again, he’s growling audibly, trying to eke the tiny bit of blood off of John’s lips.

Angrily, Percy pulls against Mary’s hand and whines, panting softly when Mary pulls him back again to murmur something in his ear. “Bite him properly, or I will,” he threatens, but Mary’s still whispering, keeping her eyes locked on the second pair. He starts squirming, but Mary’s words make him still again almost immediately. It’s a curious exchange, but Oscar doesn’t have enough time to ponder over it—John is at his neck again, kissing gently, and he has words of his own.

“See how worked up you have Percy already? I haven’t even bitten you, yet, and he’s already acting up. It’s not normal for him to be like that, you know—so eager and hungry… It’s been so long since he’s had  _ real _ human blood, but here you are, aren’t you, love? Willing and able, here pinned to a sofa because you want us. Tell me, Oscar,” John breathes, leaning up to whisper in his ear, “should I let him bite you, too? Bite you with my venom already in your veins, when you’re already so sensitive you can’t breathe without whining? Or do you want  _ both _ of us, want to feel the double rush of blood, my hands on your chest and his in your hair?”

“John,” Mary scolds, the hunger in her eyes just as potent but restrained with far more grace than either of the men’s. She’d undone the lacings on her corset at some point, and it lay balanced on the arm of the sofa, exposing her chemise and the rise and fall of her chest. She's clearly affected, but even dishevelled she is striking—her dark hair falls in loose curls which frame her figure well. “You’re going to make him snap.”

Vision swimming, Oscar arches his porcelain neck beautifully, drawing a particularly needy gasp from Percy. “Look at him,” John whispers, turning his head back to watch as Percy struggles to stay still, taking his nail and tracing the smooth curve of Oscar’s neck. “Tell him to bite you, and he will, you know. Even Mary couldn’t stop him, at least not at first. Tell me, first, though—what do you want from  _ me _ ?”

Even through the haze, no doubt the aforementioned venom clouding his senses, Oscar knows what he wants. He wants to touch, to  _ feel _ , to press his fingers against those sharp fangs and feel them in his skin again. “Bite me,” he rasps, and John smiles smoothly, carding his fingers through Oscar’s hair. He glances over at Percy, and then raises his brows pointedly, nuzzling up against the cool skin beneath his jawline. “You… you and Percy. Both.”

“Both,” Percy says, and it’s torn from his throat like a prayer, looking up at Mary with wide blue eyes, squirming in her grasp gently. “Mary, please, please let me?”

Mary looks down at him for a moment, debating the repercussions if she chooses to say no, but the fully wanton and helpless look in Percy’s eyes makes her reconsider. “Of course, love, it’s not fair to let John have all the fun, yes?” 

She releases his hair halfway through the sentence, and Percy barely hears a word after  _ of course _ . He’s next to Oscar in a half a second, scenting his neck hungrily, one hand coming up fast to hold his neck steady. “Oh,” Oscar breathes, straining slightly against Percy’s hand, but he stops thinking about it when he  _ finally _ feels warm breath and then sharp fangs against his throat.

Where John’s fangs had been mere pricks against his skin, Percy’s are noticeably longer, cutting deep into his neck with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. He shudders, barely feeling the warm rivulets of blood on his skin, focused instead on the sensation of Percy’s mouth—soft suction, the warm lave of his tongue, the wetness of his mouth—and John’s growing impatience. He figures there must be some sort of medical explanation for his sudden patience, feels him shift and presumably nip at Percy’s fingers, drawing a slightly territorial hiss from the older man. Nonetheless, John’s fangs sink into the opposite side of Oscar’s throat soon enough, marking him from both sides.

Oscar barely has the brainpower to breathe, uncharacteristically uncaring about the stains this will surely leave on his jacket. He fixes his eyes on Mary instead, watching as she takes in the scene, two of her beloved poets laid bare and  _ feasting _ as if they were starving. For all Oscar knows, they might be—he certainly doesn’t know the intricacies of vampirism.

“How does it feel?” She asks gently, bringing one hand to Percy’s hair again, the other to Oscar’s thigh. This close, he can see the scar on her throat and the starkness of her hair against pale skin. His heart slams against his ribcage, perhaps due to the sight, but more likely a result of the copious amounts of venom in his system. He reaches up cautiously to curl his fingers in one of her long ringlets, just feeling it against his skin. Everything was so lovely, so bright and beautiful! How could he possibly compare it to anything he’d ever seen before? He could kiss her, really, but he won’t.

All he manages in reply is a slightly weak “good,” and then Percy shifts, biting down in a new spot, and Oscar swears he’s going to die right there. His vision isn’t quite clear, but he can see her knowing smile even through the haze. “It’s good, Mary, I—oh!”

“I know it is, love,” she says, moving her hand and stroking it through Oscar’s hair gently. “Just relax, okay? We’re going to take good care of you, and if you need anything—” her eyes flick down meaningfully, “we’ll take care of that, too. Won’t we, my elf? John?”

“Yes,” Percy says breathlessly, at the same time John hums his assent. It occurs to Oscar that he’s probably not the only one affected, and he can feel every line of John’s body against his torso when he wraps his legs around his waist and arches his back slightly. He shivers at the implications, but makes a conscious choice not to worry—after all, he’s safe with them, and every second that passes only solidifies that fact in his mind. 

A moment later, she pulls back a touch and watches as Percy finally pulls away, chest heaving and red smeared down over his chin, leaving pretty crimson drops on the white of his shirt. She takes his hand and kisses it softly, moving in to press her lips to the stained skin. She moves with grace, none of Percy’s frenzied hunger or John’s seductive innocence, only clear and deliberate movements. “Stay,” she instructs firmly, turning her head and Oscar’s neck. “Unless you want to help with other breeds of hunger.”

Percy closes his eyes and nods, clearly on cloud nine as he watches Mary curiously lap at blood already spilt. She takes her hand and uses it to stabilize Oscar’s neck again, but then hesitates. “You know George is going to want to go for the neck, darling, I don’t want the vein to collapse,” she says, mostly to herself, but she smiles fondly at Oscar when she pulls back. “I think we’ll let him recover for a moment, anyways. Once this first high fades, he’s going to be very needy, and I’d rather have you boys take care of him.”

Oscar opens his mouth weakly to produce an argument, but Mary hushes him gently. “Darling, I’m wearing an open chemise and you haven’t looked at my breasts once,” she teases, kissing his cheek fondly. “I know the type, don’t fret; there are one too many cocks in this room as is.”

“Dearest Pecksie, do let up,” Percy complains, still panting and spread over the sofa like a dead man. “He’s higher than a kite, as am I; the only one of us with a prayer is John, and I doubt he’ll be much use—” John pulls back to glare at Percy, tugging on a clump of curls meaningfully, “—ow! Besides, George isn’t even awake, I—”

“Are you certain of that?” A new voice calls, and it takes a Herculean effort for Oscar to even turn his head to find the owner. The man, previously sprawled like the dead on the second sofa, is now leaning back against the upholstery. “Dearest Shiloh, I know you know better than to argue with Mary. She's far brighter than you are.”

Mary stills the inevitable pissing match with a single finger to Percy’s lips, laughing lightly. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she calls instead, turning to look at the newcomer face-to-face. “See, dear Oscar,  _ that _ is how a gentleman typically looks at a woman in a low-cut chemise.”

Byron doesn’t even have the decency to flush, laughing along with her, shaking off the after-effects of what is likely a dreadful hangover. Oscar blinks slowly, trying to parse the situation, but words don’t seem to come. “I didn’t know that you brought  _ champagne _ . I’m afraid I’ll have to pass for now, sheerly because my head may well implode if I even consider a drink. Everything in moderation, lovely Mary.”

“Says the man who almost died in a brothel in Venice,” Percy replies, eyes sparkling. He’s sated, at least as far as hunger goes, and Byron just rolls his eyes. “Get yourself together, Albé, he’s not going to feel up to conversation in about ten minutes. Once the sedative wears off, our dear Mr. Wilde is going to be experiencing other issues. Unless, of course, you don’t want to participate?”

Byron ignores Percy once more, standing on slightly shaky legs and making his way to one of the side rooms. Mary watches him go, only breaking her focus when Keats falls back with a soft mewl, clutching at his stomach gently. “John, you must learn when to stop,” she laments, kissing his forehead gently. “Restraint will come soon, you know, around the same time your bloodlust fades. Let’s get you fixed up.” She lifts him into her arms, and he snuggles closer, always a cuddler after his feeds, smearing blood on her chemise which had miraculously remained clean up until that point.

Percy is mostly lucid by the time that Mary carries John into the kitchen, turning to Oscar with bright eyes. “You’re nice,” he says, and then laughs quietly. “And I, a poet—you know what I mean. I’m sure you’re not quite here, either.”

“Not particularly,” Oscar murmurs, floating somewhere beyond the Italian Alps, he doesn’t really know, but Percy is suddenly  _ very _ attractive. He hums, pursing his lips, bringing his fingers to his neck and sliding them through the blood. It’s warm, but not as hot as it had felt when he was first bitten. He watches Percy track the movement curiously, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking at the blood gently.

“Don’t do that,” Percy groans, furrowing his brow and turning his face away slightly. “It’s obscene, and you’re mortal, and I don’t want to end up like John.” Even so, Oscar can see the way his eyes darken slightly, and he shifts slightly on the sofa to face Percy more directly.

He slides his fingers through the mess again and raises his eyebrows in question, holding his hand out curiously. Percy stares at the blood for a moment, then pretends not to have done so, but Oscar can still feel his gaze. Something low and urgent pounds within him, carnal and not quite human, either. “So? I’m offering it to you if you want it.”

Percy hesitates for another second, then purses his lips gently in thought. “I suppose it won’t hurt,” he mumbles, leaning closer, wrapping warm lips around Oscar’s index finger and moaning low in his throat at the taste. His eyes slip closed, and Oscar watches him, taking the hand that’s not stained in life essence and carding it through Percy’s soft curls. Percy’s eyes open slightly, barely a squint, and he jostles his head until Oscar’s hand stills at the back of his skull, gently cradling.

“Good,” Oscar praises, not even noticing he’s said it. Percy’s tongue is soft and moist against his finger, and he’s slowly coming back to himself—at least partially—enough to note that there’s some other, slightly distant type of hunger pressing at the back of his mind. He pulls the digit away, staring at Percy as he rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to vicariously glean some sort of phantom flavour. “Come here.”

Percy comes, and Oscar shifts his hand slightly, kissing the cherub across from him a bit nervously. Unlike with John, Percy goes easily, soft and pliant, no longer compelled to put up a fight without something to prove to his wife. He indulges in the other man’s presence, letting his other hand slide up Percy’s knee, towards his thigh. “Sweet elf indeed,” he teases, and Percy just huffs softly.

“Come on, you,” Percy teases, taking Oscar’s hand in his own and standing. Tenderly, he presses one more tiny kiss to the corner of Oscar’s mouth, then leans down to press another to one of the marks he’d left earlier. “You’re starting to recover, and once you do, you won’t want to go anywhere. There’s a guest room with two beds we usually use for these sorts of things.”

“If you say so,” Oscar says, and he allows Percy to lead him towards the depths of his house of secrets.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> shout-out to john polidori for writing the vampyre so I can write self indulgent keats/wilde crackfic in the year of our lord 2020.
> 
> works referenced, in order of quotation:  
> "the grave of keats" - oscar wilde  
> "ode to a nightingale" - john keats  
> "la belle dame sans merci" - john keats  
> "flower of love" - oscar wilde
> 
> every nickname used within the context of this fic is completely real, other than 'perce.' there's no real need for me to point this out, but it's important to me that you know it--adonais, shiloh, pecksie, junkets, every single one. gotta love poets.
> 
> but yeah! i promise i know more about the romantics (and wilde) than this shitpost might lead you to believe--come join my [discord server](https://discord.gg/CgSwe9b) or find me on tumblr at [@praeclari](https://praeclari.tumblr.com)!


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